


but i still hold your breath (so you won't leave)

by arbhorwitch



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Nightmares, i wrote this a year ago woah, like seriously just angst and tony driving nowhere because he can, oh and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:56:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>—so three in the morning hits and the garage calls his name as he revs up the nearest car, not caring where he’s going so long as it’s away from the ghosts in the walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i still hold your breath (so you won't leave)

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha spoiler: i wrote this on my tony stark rp blog like a year ago but i decided hey maybe i should contribute to this fandom on here since i've been in it for a Long Time so 
> 
> yes
> 
> enjoy

It’s when the nightmares strike deep enough to leave physical scars on his body that he decides he’s had enough. Waking up in a cold sweat with blood beneath his fingernails and the taste of gunmetal and death coating his tongue is enough to drive the sanest insane, and he’s no exception—

_but were you ever really sane to begin with_

—so three in the morning hits and the garage calls his name as he revs up the nearest car, not caring where he’s going so long as it’s away from the ghosts in the walls.

-

And it’s fine, it’s great, watching the sun peak over the horizon and the clinging exhaustion slip away into something resembling wakefulness while the highway speeds past him. Pit stop and cup of lukewarm coffee in a thin paper cup all dolled up with too-bright colours; blurs of people and desert sand and he’s not really sure where he’s going, but it’s away from New York and he already misses Malibu.

It’s three unread messages, two unanswered calls and he shuts off his phone, swallows the guilt—Steve’ll understand, _has_ to understand.

Because he can’t do this alone, but he can damn well try.

-

He knows he’ll have hell to pay when he gets back, but he wants to shake off the shackles pinning him to the purgatory in between the living and the dead; reality and dream begin to intertwine and he drives faster, imagines the exhaust is the demons that are mapping his every move, the bitterness of the alcohol that hugs his organs until there’s nothing left.

For once, he’s not Tony Stark ( _narcissistic playboy with a penchant for self-destruction_ ) or Iron Man ( _repent for your sins, for your name_ )—he’s Just Tony, a foreign concept, but maybe not so much.

He misses Steve.

And it hurts like a son of a bitch.

-

He doesn’t like to rely on people; leaves too many doors open and breaks the locks on independence, like relying on someone eats up strength and leaves you dependent on the drug you never knew you needed. It’s too many wrongs and not enough rights, where up is south and everything is thrown out of balance.

It’s giving in to a weakness.

But he’s not weak. He’s just tired.

-

Fourth day and they know where he is, has from the beginning, and he gives them credit for the space.

He revs up the engine on the sleek red car, all dolled up with dust and dirt and sin; throws on the sunglasses and hits the road, lukewarm coffee in a thin paper cup sitting in his left hand. The ghosts stalk the interior and the insomnia rests beneath his eyes in blue hues, but maybe that’s okay.

He goes home.


End file.
